“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, madame?” he asked. I remained standing, my profile turned toward him at his request. When he had finished I asked to see what he had done and, perfectly unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription underneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present, always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the invention of _reportage_, has ever had as much to endure as I had during that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long before I arrived in America; there was all the treachery of the friends of the Comédie and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not succeed on my tour so that I might return more quickly to the fold, humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated announcements invented by my _impresario_, Abbey, and my representative, Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always ridiculous, but I did not know their real source until long afterwards when it was too late, much too late, to undeceive the public, who were fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to me whether people believe one thing or another. Life is short, even for those who live a long time, and we must live for the few who know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for whom we have the same affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as a mere crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is nothing to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to hate very rarely, as it is too fatiguing, remain indifferent to a great deal, forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does not mean forgetting, at least it does not with me. I will not mention here any of the outrageous and infamous attacks that were made upon me, as it would be doing too great an honor to the wretched people who were responsible for them from beginning to end, dipping their pen in the gall of their own soul. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that anyone who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander can do it. For that one must live. It is not given to everyone to be able to do it, but it depends on the will of God who sees and judges. CHAPTER XXVI NEW YORK AND BOSTON